Of Fingernails and Butterbeer
by Ishuca
Summary: An average Hogsmeade weekend. Or is it? HP/DM slash.


Warnings: SLASH. You don't know what it is? Then I seriously doubt that you want to be here.  
  
A/N: For Poetic Licence. You are beautiful.  
  
Couplings: H/D   
  
Spoilers: Book 3  
  
Disclaimer: Nothing here is mine except for the story. Nothing.

Of Fingernails and Butterbeer

For Poetic Licence

Draco likes to watch your hands, the way they wrap around mug and glass, long bony fingers quivering against burning crystal. He likes to observe your nails, how Butterbeer and glass transform them into things beyond bitten nail and mutilated cuticle. Like pieces of abstract art, they float in shades of gold, mug and liquid their means to beauty. Sometimes Draco says that life is like glass and truth like Butterbeer, pure gold cloaked in a thick casing that distorts objective understanding. Of course, he only ever says this with flushed cheeks and a slight hic to his voice, lips loose as he licks the rim of his cup. His eyes burn as he watches you and I wonder: if life is a mug and truth its liquid captive, what then are your fingers? What is it that he sees beneath the encrusted dirt and jagged edges?

Not that you notice. Not that you see.

You sit and laugh with your menagerie, content in your oblivion, content in the safety that comes with ignorance. Then comes the thought: is ignorance your shield, or your weapon? If asked would you even be able to answer the question, you poor, ignorant, innocent creature? Do you even know that there is a question to be asked?

Do you know what it is like to be kissed, lips against lips, noses mashing mistakenly, tongues meeting flesh and spit instead of caramel glass? Do you know what it's like to lick fleshy folds and crevices clean, sweat sticking to the corners of your mouth and the back of your teeth? Or is your idea of a fun evening Exploding Snap with the kiddies, smiling indulgence as your pets breed before your very eyes?

What do you know, Miracle Boy? Do you actually know anything of miracles? Or have you only ever experienced one miracle in your life, and that when you were nothing more than a pale larva wrapped in silk?

Draco is standing now, snarling slurred insults at a Weasley now more a tomato than a carrot. A common occurrence but for one glitch- today's instigator is none other than Weasley, eyelid twitching as he marks his territory. _Mine, not yours_.

"Why not just piss on him, Weasley? Then no one could dispute your claim." Draco's words ring out, disgusting and offensive and undeniably _true_ in the suddenly-silent tavern. He smirks as Weasley bellows, the other boy's face a furnace.

Claim, what claim, he doesn't know what 'Malfoy' is talking about, and then a quick lost look back at Granger. Who is now at his side, administering whispered sedatives, her lips trailing subtly along the curve of his ear. He calms, freckles popping back into existence one by one. What a firecracker. He has found his bucket of water in Granger, and what a waste that is. Better to set him off and watch him shoot into the sky, leaving starry sparks behind him as he trails off into nothingness. Now _that_ would be a miracle.

You stand now, making your way over to your pet, mouth working wryly as you place your hand on his shoulder. Your fingers glow luminous against the worn threads of his robe, pressing oh-so-slightly into the skin. Less than a warning, more than a reprimand. You keep a tight leash, don't you, Wonder Boy? But whose is the collar?

Draco's eyes are busy on your hands, your face, your body. But do you see that? Or do you only see the lift of his lip and the tilt of his eyebrow as he hisses at you, grinding you to dust?

You make a pathetic Parselmouth, Potter.

You send your cronies on their way, smiling and nodding at their worried looks and hushed whispers. Idiots. As if Draco, or any self-respecting Slytherin, would do more than bare his teeth in such a public place. But perhaps you know that, perhaps that is why there is a sort of indulgence hovering about your lips. Perhaps that is why you lean forward and press your lips to Draco's ear, breathing secrets straight to his eardrum. Perhaps that is why he gasps and jumps back, cheeks now flushed from something other than Butterbeer. A coy look, the edge of one of those mangled nails pressed against your bottom lip, saying, "_Secret, it's a secret_," and you are gone.

Perhaps you do see.


End file.
